


in the dark (without you)

by dragon_rider



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Psychological Torture, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He misses Blake more than he misses the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the dark (without you)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt, "Adam gets kidnapped and beaten up. He's an emotional wreck and after Blake rescues him Adam insists he's fine but Blake knows he isn't. Adam has a breakdown eventually and Blake is there."
> 
> Unbetaed and I failed at the 'Blake rescues him' bit of it because it didn't seem realistic to me. I apologize for that. Hope you can enjoy it anyway.

It’s a normal day when it happens; unassuming, sunny, maybe this side of too hot to be mildly uncomfortable in a LA afternoon.

Adam leaves the studio and walks to his car, gets the keys out of his pocket and that’s how far he gets before noticing the figure behind him on the polished surface of his Ferrari. His heart jumps to his throat, sordid images assaulting his mind from all the news he’s seen about people beaten within an inch of their life for a lot less than a beautiful car.

Then there are muscled, merciless arms around his torso and he struggles against the hold on instinct. His elbow connects with the man’s throat—he’s taller than him, broader than him, and he really shouldn’t be fighting unless he wants to end up with a knife between his ribs or worse but panic muddles his thoughts and there’s nothing rational about how hard of a fight he puts.

He kicks and screams and throws punches, hoping against hope that someone from the building he just left sees what’s going on and calls for help. No one does, obviously, and the man grunts when Adam almost manages to knock him off his feet, hitting his knee with enough force to make it crack.

With blinding, terrifying clarity, Adam understands the man has been trying to be fucking _gentle_ , if that’s even possible when robbing somebody violently, and he can’t even cry when the air is punched out of him and his hair is yanked after his head connects crudely with the sidewalk, his vision darkening worryingly for several seconds and pain blossoming like a current from the side of his head.

But it’s not his Ferrari this guy wants. He drops the keys Adam’s been holding stupidly in his left fist and drags his half-passed out body to a nearby van.

It’s him. He wants _him_ , he’s taking him _away_ to fuck knows where and it doesn’t matter that he can’t win, that resisting only earns him a backhand on the same side of his face that’s throbbing like a horse kicked him on the temple and a vicious kick on his kidney, no—Adam fights anyway, fights tooth and nail this time instead of only panic-driven.

The man palms his jeans roughly in search of his iPhone and flings it over his shoulder even as Adam bites his forearm enough to draw blood and gag.

He doesn’t want to die but the back of the van closing behind him after he’s tossed inside like an especially inconvenient package feels like a death sentence.

 _Blake_ , he thinks blearily, nonsensically, a wet cloth with something that makes his stomach roll not letting him breathe deep enough, only causing his eyelids to droop so forcefully there’s not a thing he can do to keep himself alert, to stop this from happening, _I’m sorry I’m not gonna make it in time, cowboy._

They had a date.

***

He’s handcuffed to a radiator and stripped down to his boxers when he wakes up. His head is pounding and he’s sore almost everywhere and he doesn’t know how long it’s been but he’s so thirsty that hurts too.

He shivers even though it’s so humid and hot he’s sticky with sweat. The flagstones under him are cold and hard and there’s no light in the room, no windows, only a narrow set of stairs that lead to a door that’s completely out of his reach, just like his freedom is.

He tugs at the metal around his wrists and stifles a sob when it doesn’t budge. This is insane, this can’t really be happening to him, and yet—and yet here he is, darkness his only reality, and there are steps coming down the stairs and he’s acutely aware he’s at the utter mercy of whoever it is that’s coming to check on him.

It’s the same guy who abducted him.

It takes a moment that the stranger spends staring at him like there’s nothing sweeter in this world than Adam Levine, achingly vulnerable on the floor of his house, but Adam’s eyes get accustomed to the low light and he catches the crazy glint in his gaze and shivers again.

 _Do as he says_ , a minute, sensible voice pleads in his head, _he could kill you so easily if you don’t. Don’t fight._

He wishes he could but the second the man kneels before him and leans closer to him, leering openly like it’s his fucking right to do so, Adam loses it.

“I had a comfy room all set for you, love,” he explains patiently, like he’s talking to an obtuse child, his hand coming to rest on Adam’s battered cheek and he’s not quick enough to bite him again but not for lack of trying, “Ah, there. See? I can’t let bad boys be comfortable. You have to earn that, baby. Can you behave for me?”  
“ _Fuck you_ ,” Adam swears but his voice wobbles, nothing but fear patent in his idle insult, “You’re fucking nuts, don’t you dare touch me, you fucking psycho!”

The man shushes him gently as if Adam were crying instead of thrashing in his hold but when Adam keeps cursing him and manages to kick him away a couple of inches, his expression mutates from absurdly patient to incredibly furious in a heartbeat and his big fingers close around his throat cruelly, leaving Adam gaping like a fish out of water for just the tiniest gulp of air which is all the grip allows.

“If only you could understand I want nothing but the best for you, my dear boy,” he murmurs, sickly loving and fake, “Would you strop struggling? I don’t want to hurt you. You’re forcing me to hurt you and I hate that. Look what you made me do to your pretty face. It wounds me, really, and now you’re making me leave ugly marks on your neck. This is all your fault, baby boy, because you don’t know how to be good.”

He lets Adam’s neck go just as he’s feeling himself fainting and Adam pants loudly once he’s able to breathe freely, blinking past horrified tears that trickle down his chin and take the last shreds of his dignity he could possibly have in a situation like this.

“You’re sick,” Adam rasps, hate infusing strength he doesn’t have to his voice, “You disgust me.”  
“You know what disgusts me?” his aggressor asks casually, like they’re discussing the weather, “That stupid redneck’s hands on you, touching you like he _owns_ you when you’re _mine_ ,” his face contorts with wrath and Adam crawls until his back hits the wall beside him, cuffs jangling with the movement, wanting the wall of China between them and having nothing but thin air instead, “I had to let him take you but I should kill him for it. Would you like that, love? Shall I bring you his head as a present?”

It’s only then that Adam's mind clicks, screeching to a halt at the same time.

He knows who this man is. He’s seen him before, always in passing, never paid attention to him beyond a quick hello.

He’s one of the Security guards at Blake’s label, always around during concerts and official events to protect artists and given Adam has been at Blake’s side more often than not since both of their marriages failed, he’s been seeing him through the corner of his eye for months now and after they were outed to the public that didn’t change.

It’s ironic but it’s not like the movies. Adam never suspected a thing from him, never had any kind of bad hunch, never thought the middle-aged bodyguard could have any kind of feelings for him beyond mild annoyance whenever Blake acted like a five year-old and Adam encouraged him, acting pretty much the same or worse.

 “Jones, please,” Adam says, as subdued as he can manage, “You’re a good guy, you’ve been taking care of us for so long, if you let me go I promise to talk to the police so they go easy on you but you have to let me go, you have to stop this.“

They’re having two different conversations though and there’s no reasoning with him.

“Or maybe you’d rather I bring you his cock. You love his cock, after all, don’t you?”

There’s venom in those words enough to slaughter a hundred people. Adam cowers from it but there’s nowhere to go and he doubts pleading Jones to leave Blake alone will get him anywhere. Hell, it’d probably encourage him to hurt him and that’s the last thing Adam wants.

“You know, I really thought everyone was going to shun the two of you and that you were going to break up over the mess the press was going to make of you but I have to hand it to that dimwit—he’s charming so no one gave a damn about it. Isn’t he charming, love? Is that one of the things you like about him? Answer my question!”  
“Yes!” Adam admits quickly, shutting his eyes tight when he sees another blow coming and bites back his worry for Blake because Blake isn’t here with a psychopathic asshole right now and he has to worry about himself if he wants to make it out.

The fist doesn’t connect. Knuckles trace his pulse point, the stubble in the outline of his jaw.

Adam hates the way he trembles around a sob, unable to control his breathing and his anxiety.

Jones shushes him again, very gently, and promises not to do anything to him that Adam doesn’t want unless it’s to _teach him better_.

He leaves him in the dark after a while only to come back with a huge basin filled with water and a box that makes Adam’s heartbeat skyrocket.

It’s nothing extremely horrible—not really, Adam tells himself, because the man washes the sweat and blood and dirt off his skin with care and there’s a thermos with some kind of cool tea that Adam drinks down without thinking when offered.

***

Once a day, Jones takes him upstairs to a bathroom cautiously devoid of any blunt and sharp objects.

This is how Adam starts counting the time because he’s still confined to the basement with no sunlight and no fresh air and there’s no other way for him to tell how long it’s been since he got here.

He doesn’t know where ‘here’ is. Probably not LA, the heat of the city as familiar to Adam as the back of his hand and this isn’t it, possibly down the South somewhere but it’s hard to tell since the man has no accent and he has no real information to think that except the suffocating humidity clawing at him 24/7.

He starts behaving better after the first week. He does enough—or little enough—to deserve a real shower that he’s thankfully allowed to take on his own because he agreed to eat a little and Jones was ecstatic with his progress, claimed to be worried sick of the weight Adam’s been losing for being stubborn and such a _bad boy_.

Jones doesn’t hit him again or touches him at all, actually. It takes several days for Adam to notice but by the tenth day mark all his bruises are gone, his scabs almost healed too, and even his bones don’t feel abused anymore but even with no physical torture he starts crying himself to sleep, alone in the dark and quiet of his private prison.

It’s been two weeks, maybe, when he decides anything is better than hurting with no hurt to sooth whatsoever on his body and he starts taunting Jones to punch him, to kick him, to do anything that isn’t cooing him, telling him how good he’s doing, how lovely he is, but everything he gets is more confinement; Jones leaves him to rot in the basement for what feels like days and he loses count, can’t tell how long he’s been here when the man finally allows him upstairs again and surprises him, handing him a razor to get rid of the beard that smells foul and acrid with vomit more often than not because Adam can’t keep much food in his belly, he’s too anxious to manage that.

He shaves shakily, messily, cutting his cheeks and neck so much he has to spend half an hour pressing a towel to his face and apologizing in fearful whispers to Jones who only shakes his head in mild disappointment and watches him disinfect the grazes with a watchful eye, still not touching him for anything that isn’t pulling Adam’s weakened body up and helping him up the steps.

***

He spends every minute of his time in the dark missing and needing Blake like a missing limb.

He lies through his teeth about it whenever Jones asks but he hopes Blake is still looking for him, hopes he hasn’t given up on him, that he doesn’t hate Adam for being so fucking weak he’s let this happen and can’t escape from it.

He remembers the lazy mornings when they woke up next to each other bathed in sunlight and misses Blake more than he misses the sun even though he hasn’t seen either of them in only God knows how long.

He thinks he knows what Jones is doing—making him so desperate for any kind of attention he’ll cheat on Blake and ask for kisses and touches he doesn’t want only because he aches with need but he only pleads to be allowed outside for a bit, only five minutes and it’ll be enough, he swears, I’ll be good, he promises, and Jones tricks him into singing for him and swoons like Adam is Lucciano Fucking Pavarotti even though his voice is a wreck and he doesn’t even know what song he’s singing.

He allows him to wear clothes, puts sunglasses on his face and a cap on his head and takes him outside where there’s a swing he’s allowed to use, the wind touching his skin like a lover’s caress and the heat almost enough to stop his constant shivering.

There’s someone mowing the lawn in the house next to them. Adam thinks it’s a young boy at first but then realizes it’s a girl when she stares at him and runs back to her house hastily, leaving everything she was using behind.

Jones doesn’t notice, too busy smiling at Adam like the utter creep he is, watching him swing back and forth coyly.

“There’s a good boy,” he says, pleased when Adam doesn’t try to shout for help.

***

The police arrive the next day. A female officer that looks like his mom wraps a thick blanket over his shoulders and eases him out of the basement, encouraging him with kind words to take the steps as slowly as he needs after he sees Adam kicking the poor paramedics who try to put him on a stretcher.

She doesn’t touch him more than necessary to stop Adam’s swaying every now and then. When they reach the living room, Adam sees Jones’ body laying cold and bloody on the floor and stares.

“Is Blake okay?” it’s the first thing he asks. He can tell is the wrong thing to say by the shocked looks he gets from the officers around him, “He said he was going to kill him,” he explains, feeling dumb and small, chin tucked firmly against his chest and arms tugging the blanket closer to his sides, “And now he’s just… there…”  
“Your partner is okay, Mr. Levine,” the woman replies softly, a worried frown—again, identical to his mom’s—on her face, “Mr. Jones won’t be able to hurt you or anyone else again. He’s dead.”

Another officer brings him a spare uniform for Adam to put on. It’s too big for him but Adam takes it anyway, mumbling thanks that mingle with the relieved tears he can’t stop shedding and hides beneath the blanket once he’s done dressing even though it’s like 104º outside, squinting against the light hurting his eyes as he stumbles to his regained freedom.

He passes out in the police car the minute the engine starts.

***

Someone who looks like Blake checks him when he wakes up flailing in a hospital bed. He explains gently that Adam is having hallucinations, that his family and friends have been informed of his admittance to the clinic and are on their way now, and Adam is grateful he’s too skittish to reach out no matter how much he itches to touch, to feel something beneath his fingers that isn’t cold bricks and metal and dirt.

Adam asks him to leave the window and curtains open even though his head and his eyes smart with the light. The AC creaks with the effort of keeping his room cool but no one forces Adam to close it and he enjoys every bit of hot, damp breeze that makes it inside.

***

His parents and his brother come in first.

His mom is crying loud enough that he winces with it. They pat him on the back and try to make him talk but Adam is distant and quiet and can only move his head to respond to some of their questions, mumbling he’s a moron who deserved this when they keep pushing him to tell them what happened.

His mom cries harder after that, for some reason, and when they take her outside Adam finds himself missing her moans because he can’t stand the silence.

The one thing that he wants is a hug but they don’t give it to him, skittering around him like Adam could break if they breathe too hard near him.

***

Blake comes in next and he doesn’t make Adam ask for anything. He takes one look at him, sways on his feet by the door for a moment before wrapping himself around Adam tight enough to make his breath hitch, and announces his friends from the band want to come say hello and that he doesn’t feel he has any right to keep them outside because he understands what it is like, the need to see he’s still in one piece and alive if a little worse for wear.

Adam burrows into his chest, one of his hands relentlessly tracing every line of Blake’s face and the other clinging to his back for dear life, and nods. Blake kisses the crown of his head, his big but caring hands cradling his nape and waist as he holds him a little bit closer to him and makes some sort of secret signal for the door to open.

His friends come in sheepishly but start talking his ear off once they seem to get he wants loud and normal instead of a pity party.

***

The first time he wakes up and Blake isn’t there, Adam screams bloody murder until his boyfriend is back to his side in a mad dash and promises he’s not leaving him alone, that he was only going to the bathroom.

Adam feels sickened by his own inability to control himself but Blake touches the IV hooked to his hand, delicately taking his hand in his, and kisses his knuckles, doesn’t seem bothered or mad at all by any of Adam’s tantrums despite of how often they occur—whether it’s because he’s had a vivid nightmare, because he’s alone, because a nurse turned out the lights or closed the window, or because he’s laughing at one of Blake’s silly jokes one second and crying his eyes out the next.

“If being joined at the hip is what you need, Adam, then I’m staying right here,” Blake says, firm and resolute, blue eyes shining with emotions that Adam wishes he could crawl into and disappear in them, “I’m staying right here even if the President comes and tries to kick me out, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”  
“Don’t leave me,” Adam begs, tucking his head beneath Blake’s chin and closing his eyes. He’s so fucking tired of crying and being a pain in the ass but he can’t help it, he really can’t.  
“Never.”

Acute stress disorder, the doctors said, and he’s malnourished on top of it so it’s a wonder they agree to discharge him when they do but he gets to go home with Blake to heal.

The country singer doesn’t seem overwhelmed at all by Adam’s constant needs. Without prompting, he helps him shower, helps him shave, helps him get tired enough to get some decent sleep or stays awake with him until morning when that’s not possible and never, ever complains about it being too much, about it being not exactly what he signed up for when they started seeing each other.

“You’d do the same for me,” Blake shrugs when Adam inquires.

***

“He didn’t touch me,” Adam says, voluntarily sharing perhaps the first thing he’s ever said about his ordeal outside of therapy, “He beat the shit out of me to get me to go with him but then he only touched my cheek once and left me be. He’d leave me for days on end, sometimes, alone in the dark.”

It’s almost time for dinner and they’re cooking a small, simple meal together. Blake pauses, takes the knife Adam is using to cut broccoli out of his hand and squeezes it in silent support.

Adam finds a small, sad smile for him and looks up, smoothing Blake’s brow with the tip of his fingers.

“I guess he wanted me to miss him but I could only miss you. I missed you so much I thought I was going crazy.”

Blake heaves a shuddering sigh, a little wet, but Adam shakes his head and keeps going, shutting him up with a finger on his lips.

“I know I’ve been difficult, not exactly stellar boyfriend material, but I really appreciate what you’re doing for me, Blake, and if I could fall in love with you all over again, I would. I know I would.”

Not many people could be so patient, so understanding, wouldn’t feel the need to bail out when things don’t look up as soon as they should.

Jesus, Adam thinks bashfully, he can’t remember the last time they slept together and he hasn’t even heard Blake jerking off in the shower in the few minutes a day they’re not in the same room.

“I love you,” he finishes, a little lamely, a deep blush creeping into his cheeks down to his neck making it a challenge to keep the eye contact but he doesn’t give up, “I’m really happy I got to tell you that before everything.”

Blake is so unbelievably perceptive. He’s been keeping the pet names to a minimum without Adam saying shit about Jones calling him love and being disturbingly gentle, always knowing where to touch him and how much was enough, how much was too much and he wishes there was a way for him to truly thank him for being who he is and staying by his side but _I love you_ is what he has to say and even if it’s not enough it’s something.

“Adam…” Blake’s voice trails off, cracks with an emotion Adam hopes like Hell is a good one and apparently it is, because his personal Sasquatch leans down and kisses him chastely, barely pressing his lips on his but the touch is warm and confident and exactly what Adam needs, “I love you so much. This hasn’t changed nothing, you hear me? I love you. And we’re gonna get through this together, I know we will,” he pinches the skin on Adam’s middle playfully, nuzzling his nose with a laugh when Adam yelps, “Now, let’s feed your scrawny little ass. C’mon, pass me the garlic.”


End file.
